


A Higher Road

by thegraytigress



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his much needed hunting trip is ruined by foul weather, Aragorn finds that sometimes the higher path is not always the best, and that fate has a strange way of relieving frustrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Higher Road

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** G
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi, everyone! Well, I finally found the pile of LotR oneshots I wrote back in the day, so I'll be uploading them one at a time over the next few days. Enjoy this one! I kinda forgot I even wrote this… ;-)

Aragorn, King of the united realms of Arnor and Gondor, was in a terrible mood. It was quite unbecoming of a man of his station to express such a volatile temper, and normally he would not fathom allowing his fiery displeasure to ever pierce his typically calm countenance. As a leader, equanimity was often required of him, and even in the most frustrating and vexing of situations he maintained an air of absolute serenity and confidence. Never did an angry glance escape him. Never did a foul curse exit thin lips. Never did he vent his wrath or demean those about him to quicker free him from undesirable or arduous duties. He was king, and as such he conducted himself properly, offering respect in return for much the same. No matter how much a matter tried upon his patience, he never outwardly displayed his anger. He could ill afford to insult those he wished to command.

At this moment, though, he felt like screaming. He doubted there were words sufficient in vulgarity to express his distaste for the present situation. Even if there were, sanity would prevent him from spouting such wrath. Though he did not command the Elf (there was a laugh!), he sorely did not want to irritate Legolas any further. From what little could he see of the prince’s face, his countenance was veiled in a stern but stoic expression. His jaw was firm, and his eyes were bright. One unfamiliar with Elves, or with the somewhat peculiar ways of this particular Elf, might have missed the subtle indications that this calm was merely a façade. Aragorn, however, had spent much time in the company of the son of Thranduil, and he had learned well the signs others might miss. An angry Elf was as deadly as he was calm, and from the guarded look in Legolas’ glare, it was obvious he was breathing fire.

“Where is that fool Elf leading us?” Gimli grumbled. The Dwarf grunted angrily, his dark eyes narrowed into a disdainful gaze. “To the sun? Surely he should know by now his limitations! There is no sun to be found this day.”

The last statement was true enough, and therein lay the true source of Aragorn’s petulance. The sky overhead was a terrible shade of looming gray, the clouds hanging low and heavy with a belly full of rain. Down came the cold deluge, sundering the forest in driving sheets. The trees drooped and moaned under the abuse, dripping their gloomy tears to the forest floor. The air was tight and chilly, invading the body with a wicked caress that sucked away heat and comfort. Each droplet struck the skin with seeming deliberate precision, piercing like a needle of ice, cruel and stinging. Though he sported numerous layers of clothing, the garments provided no protection from the teeming rain. The foul water soaked through his tunic and breeches with little regard to his wish to remain dry and warm. The storm had rendered him a sodden mess. He was thoroughly drenched and miserable, and it was more than apparent from the swollen sky just visible through the interlocking mesh of newly leaved limbs above that the confounded weather was perfectly content to ruin this day.

Just ahead Legolas stiffened. Aragorn peered through the driving rain, watching the Elf’s slender hand clench into a fist. “Do not think yourself so clever, Dwarf,” hissed the prince. Though he did not turn around to face him, Aragorn had no trouble picturing the irritation burning in those glowing eyes of his. “I hear every word you speak, even those you mutter beneath your breath.”

Gimli growled. Were his own mood not so foul, Aragorn might have found the stout warrior’s appearance quite humorous. The short creature’s abundant beard was glistening with pearls of rainwater, the rusty mass of frazzled hair twinkling as though lined with diamonds. It must have been a terribly heavy thing, so saturated with liquid as it was. A mental image of Gimli’s head sinking forward with the weight of his sodden beard flitted across his mind, and for a moment he could not suppress a tiny smile from twisting his lips. It was difficult to find Gimli at all threatening or dangerous given his present condition, though his black eyes swam in ire. Indeed, the small creature was as miffed as the Elf and the man. But with good reason.

Their escape had been utterly ruined.

It had seemed a simple and greatly welcomed prospect. This last winter had proved to be a cankerous one. The gloomy weather had been slow to relinquish its hold upon the land. The season had been especially cold and long, and all of Gondor had been covered with snow for the better part of it. The southern nation was accustomed to mild winters, and thus this freezing, icy bout had taken them quite by surprise. By the time spring had come, the nation was itching to embrace a warmer climate. Aragorn had been far from immune from the depression of the cold winter. Cooped up in the Citadel, he had done naught for months but review kingly business. With advisors and lords he had discussed dull matters of state. Though the work was extensive, it was utterly dreary and tedious, and he had nearly wished his death from the sheer boredom. He counted himself a patient man, but even he could not tolerate such endless stress and politicking. Many nights had he spent restless, tossing and turning in his bed and disturbing his wife. All the Citadel had been tense with his listless misery.

Thus, when spring had finally graced the world with a reprieve from the staunch cold, the queen had had enough. She had banished him forthwith from the Citadel, quite tired of his ill-tempered rants and sleepless nights. She had apparently exhausted her tolerance of his cranky disposition, and she, in as polite a manner as possible, suggested that he expend some of his energy and frustration in the wilderness. The idea had immediately set his heart aglow. The thought of freedom, of relaxing under the cool, beautiful stars, of hunting and tracking and being far, _far_ away from the court had breathed exuberant life into his beaten enthusiasm. Thrilled, he had summoned his friends. Both the Elf and the Dwarf had been nearly as frustrated with the winter and their responsibilities as lords and leaders as Aragorn had been, though neither admitted it plainly. Still, a hunting trip was very much in order, and having placed a few advisors in control of his peaceful kingdom, the king and his companions had departed for the forests of Ithilien.

The day had begun brightly, of course. The morning had been warm and pleasant, the woods alive with the freshness of new life. Birds had chirped, filling the sweet air with their cheerful songs. Dew had lined green leaves and flowers like pearls. The air had been fresh and rejuvenating as the three hunters had broken their camp. Talking unabashedly about inane matters they had continued upon a westerly path, heading deeper into the dense, beautiful forests of the Garden of Gondor, simply glad to be free of the drudgery of the matters of state and with each other. Though Gimli cared little for woodlands, Legolas was absolutely alive in the forest, glowing vibrantly as he listened for game and silently tracked the movements of fowl and deer. And Aragorn had flourished. His heart had sung a ballad of glory and gaiety when his mind and body found themselves in his element. It felt glorious to be among the trees again, to fall upon simple skills that had, through years of experience and natural talent, become instinctual. Here there was no thought, no complex problems of money and manners, no need to understand the hidden agendas of those who served him. Here, everything was as it seemed. The forest did not lie, complain, or request aught of him. The silence had been a soothing balm to his ringing ears and aching body. This was paradise. A quiet, peaceful utopia.

But then the clouds had come. The air had changed from a pleasant, warm caress to a cold slap of wind. Then the first few drops had fallen. Those innocent splashes of water had hardly been noticed until one had splattered upon his nose. One. Then two or three. A soft drizzle had come, the new leaves twitching and shaking with the gentle fall of rain, the soft patter resounding in the forest. This was almost agreeable, for he had spent many years in the wilderness as a ranger, and though kingly life did somewhat pamper him, he was not so far removed from his past to be bothered by a bit of rain.

Yet nature and fate had joined forces in testing his patience, it seemed, for that bit of rain had sometime ago become a terrible deluge. It had been pouring for hours with no sign of respite or relief, and Aragorn was beginning to curse the foul track of destiny that had led him into this soggy mess. It was early in the year. He should have known that the weather was a fickle beast that could easily morph from a beautiful morning into a torrential disaster of an afternoon. The prospect of liberation had been seemingly consuming, though, and now he was trapped.

Grunting, he pulled his foot from a particularly muddy spot on this winding, upward path. The gooey substance was reluctant to release his boot, sucking him deeper before finally releasing him. Rainwater ran into his narrowed eyes as he looked up. He truly was beginning to wonder where Legolas was taking them. After a moment of grumpy debate, the three hunters had eventually agreed that returning to Minas Tirith was the best course of action. The forest provided little cover from this storm, and night would not long be upon them. That decision had come hours ago, and Aragorn had allowed Legolas to direct them as they traversed the dense woodlands, believing the Elf more capable than he to keep their road beneath their feet. Now he was starting to doubt. The deluge was so heavy that he could barely keep his sense of direction intact, and that was quite a serious admission for a ranger of his skill. Disoriented as he might be, though, he was beginning to doubt the Elf had any clearer an idea of their heading. Landmarks became a blurry, watery mess to his desperate eyes, but he was fairly certain they were traveling in a dreary circle.

Frustrated, his control was slipping through his numbed fingers. “Legolas!” he called, raising his voice over the cacophony of the rain and wind. “Halt! Are you sure we still maintain the course we decided?”

The lithe Elf turned on light feet. His blue cloak glistened wetly as he lifted his head and gave Aragorn a glare. Had this been any other time, had he not been cold, drenched, and hungry, the man might have felt ashamed for doubting his friend and insulting the other’s skills. As it was, though, he was sure Legolas had lost track of their path and was too embarrassed to admit it. They had climbed this forsaken hill forever, it seemed, and to little avail, for each step they took another fifty seemed before them. The path was narrow, ending abruptly a few feet to Aragorn’s left. From there the terrain descended steeply into a bit of a gorge. The ground was already swollen with the teeming rain. Swollen and a bit unsettled.

Legolas’ eyes flashed. “Yes, I am quite certain we do,” he declared slowly and evenly. Of the three of them, he seemed the least affected by the dour rain. He had somehow remained relatively dry. _Perhaps his cloak is endowed with some sort of Elvish enchantment to ward away the moisture,_ Aragorn thought bitterly. It seemed almost possible, for the offensive rain seemed to only splatter on the cloth, repelled by the strength of the fibers, and its chilling touch never reached the Elf’s skin or hair. The man settled his companion with a steely gaze, decidedly jealous of his decidedly more comfortable state. “And I would appreciate if you two would stop doubting me. The path forks ahead, and we shall remain on the lower route. It is a bit longer, but the wiser course.”

“Longer? Bah, Elf! We shall drown if we remain in this squalor much longer!” Gimli announced angrily, his gruff voice deep and rich as he turned blazing eyes upon his friend.

Aragorn stepped forward, gazing over Legolas’ shoulder to the road beyond. He could perceive little more than a blinding mess of streaking water. “How much time would we save if we walked the other road?” he asked.

Legolas did not answer immediately. His face was apathetic, but Aragorn could perceive the frustration swirling in the depths of his eyes. “I would not recommend that, Aragorn. The ground here is faulty. The topsoil looks sufficiently thawed, but I doubt the layers beneath have yet warmed enough to soften. The rain will assuredly create a run-off, and the higher path is already a bit more treacherous.”

Sound logic! But when one was wet and miserable, the only option afforded to the mind was that which put an end to the suffering. Thus, Aragorn’s anger and irritation made those advising words seem only the prattle of a _dry_ Elf, and he promptly brushed it aside. He conjured up any reason to bolster his argument, not caring in the slightest when the rationale sounded utterly lame and ludicrous to his own ears. “It is not so great a risk. If we do not hurry, we will freeze out here with the coming of night.”

Legolas sighed and rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt that, Aragorn.”

“You would, Elf!” Gimli snorted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Remember that we mortals are not so endowed with your resistance to the whims of the elements. I, for one, have no wish to remain in this blasted forest any longer than absolutely necessary. I refuse to sleep in the rain! We will never be able to create a proper fire…”

Gimli was testing Legolas’ patience, and Aragorn was well aware of the consequences of such an act. He had no desire to weather the beating their bickering would do to his already pulsing head, so he stepped between the two. “We shall take the high road,” he declared vehemently, allowing them no argument or contradiction. He was tired with placing his fate in the hands of another. The fact that he had on myriad dangerous occasions in the past trusted Legolas explicitly with his life never breached the veil of irritation smoothing his good sense. At the moment the Elf was only slowing their escape from this horrible, failed attempt at fun. If he was not an ally in their quest for warmth, dry clothes, and a nice bed, he was an enemy. “I will take the lead now.”

Legolas’ eye twitched. Fury radiated from his slender form, and the air about him seemed to crackle with power. “We all feel the weight of lordship. You are not the only one! Do not put upon me your frustrations! I have plenty of my own.” The king bristled, but said nothing, lifting his chin in proud defiance. An awkward minute crept away from them, after which the Elf eventually said, “Fine. So be it. If this makes you happy, I will not stop you.”

“Good. Now step aside.”

Silence, tense and fiery. The Elf never blinked, and his glare was vicious and powerful. Aragorn was angry enough to merely stare back, and their quiet battle of wills continued for a few long moments. Each warrior was challenging the other to attack, to make more of this already insufferable situation with further contention. Both were a stubborn sort, sharp-witted and quick to exert regal influence. Royalty had bred into them enough arrogance to bolster their cause to the very end, no matter the circumstance, should they wish victory. Neither easily conceded, for, between even the closest of friends, competition and contest still lingered.

Finally, Gimli cleared his throat. Aragorn looked down, and Legolas stepped back. The king kept his face placid as he walked past the glowering Elf and assumed command of their party. Inside he was joyful, even euphoric, to have won this silly victory. Vaguely he knew he was acting terribly childish, but he was miserable enough not to care and to find great ecstasy in besting the Elf.

So they walked. No one had the gall to speak, each too deeply enveloped in dark thoughts of his own to care much for those of his comrades. The endless rain spoke in their steed, and it was laughing gleefully. Each strike of the fat droplets was a chuckle, and together it formed a boisterous chorus of loud, snide guffaws. The weather was roaring at them in sadistic humor, greatly amused at their expense. All the trouble through which they had gone… All the pent-up annoyance, the restless anger, the exhaustion and endless work… This was their reward? How cruel was life! How mean was fate! And the rain laughed and laughed at their misfortune.

And, as was the wont of bad situations, it was about to get worse.

They trudged along the higher path. To their right was the incline of the hill. Water dribbled down through the dirt, making a subtle, muddy stream that flooded onto their leaf-covered trail and seeped deep into the ground. Aragorn’s angrily racing mind was foolishly distracted, and he failed to notice the squishy consistency of the earth beneath his heavily plodding feet. The muddy concoction was spilling from the ridge, eroding the once firm soil beneath it. It was not overly apparent, but had the king been paying better attention, he surely would have seen the danger. As it was, though, he was busily cursing fate, rain, and all things Elven, and the water hungrily devoured their road.

A few more minutes managed to slip by them before disaster struck. Aragorn’s heart leapt suddenly into his throat when he mindlessly stepped and his foot struck nothing. His eyes widened, and panic rushed over him as he belatedly realized what had happened. Before his stupefied gaze the deceptively solid ground dissolved in a rush of rainwater and mud. Leaves and branches were washed away with the dirt beneath his feet. There was no time to act. Aragorn could only release a very unmanly scream as he lost his balance, tipped, and fell.

Down he tumbled. There was no way to stop his plummet, and over the rushed thunder of his heart he could only heart the splatter of the rain as it pelted him. He rolled and flailed, striking branches and crunching them with his weight. He could not breathe or think to move. His limbs were heavy and useless as he descended, refusing to even attempt to stop his fall. Time lost meaning, and all he felt was sick, cold, and wet. There was no pain or fear. There was nothing but a pit of resigned dread dragging him down, and he was simply too defeated to even try to fight this inevitable moment.

Then he struck the ground with a horrible _squish_. The breath rushed from his lungs he lay still, squeezing his eyes shut as the world pitched and spun around him. His stomach heaved uncertainly, and for a moment he was fairly certain he would he ill. As dizzy and disoriented as he was, he still felt acutely every strike of the rain upon him. It echoed in his ears, audible even over the whoosh of his breathing and the deafening roar of his heart. For a long time he was still, dazed, afraid to move. The ground was sucking him in hungrily, as though seeking to draw him deeper into the earth and devour him whole. Something was restraining his arms and legs. Something was pulling him down, rendering him immobile and very worried. Something viscous and icy. Sensation crawled back into his numbed limbs, and he felt bruised and battered but otherwise whole. He chanced opening his eyes and leaning up.

Those slimy, cold fingers grasping him were not fingers at all, but mud. Thick, black mud. And he was lying in a lake of it.

Aragorn groaned in sheer misery. His head fell back into the gelatinous mess of leaves, twigs and mud. He pondered his foul luck, at his stupidity. He wondered why today of all days had to be so completely ruined. He considered why he was meant to suffer, why the only peace he had had in what seemed to be forever had been cruelly wrested from his hands. He had been so utterly elated to embark on this hunting trip… Why could he not have had a speck of enjoyment?!

There was the sound of distant shouting, and he imagined Legolas and Gimli were struggling to find a way down the steep drop-off without falling themselves. Aragorn closed his eyes and found his body relaxing. His stomach was still twisting, and he was not brave enough to face his situation yet. The mud was seeping its revolting substance into his clothes and hair. He felt it beneath his bare arms. The rain slammed into his face, and he felt like he was simply sinking into the mire.

“Aragorn!” cried Gimli.

“Aragorn, are you hurt?” came Legolas’ concerned tone. The king sighed, deciding he could no longer wallow in this pit. This trip was ruined. The sooner he came to terms with that, the sooner he would be free of his anger.

Or so he hoped.

Legolas appeared in his vision, Gimli huffing behind him. The pristine Elf was skirting the edge of gooey mess of muck and water, his bright eyes searching for a safe path to his friend. Clearly he thought to reach Aragorn without venturing into the swampy crud himself. Aragorn growled, his anger suddenly breaking through whatever dam he had built to contain it. The sound was guttural and void of any civil restraint. Finding a relatively secure spot, Legolas arched his lithe body elegantly, extending his long limbs to stretch as far as he could. The Elf reached a hand towards his fuming friend, and Aragorn grasped it. And yanked. Hard.

Legolas yelped as his already precarious balance was destroyed. His body teetered for a moment as he twisted and flailed, but even he, with all his strength and agility, could not restore a measure of stability to his stance. He pitched forward, slipping and staggering, and flopped most ungracefully into the pit of mud.

The rain poured and poured. Other than that, everything was still.

Aragorn was breathing heavily as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He did not care that the mud was lathered over his arms and legs, or that it was caked uncomfortably upon his skull. He did not mind the sticky substance covering his clothes, or the putrid stench of rotting leaves and mildew that emanated from it. He was watching Legolas keenly, for the Elf was laying prone in the reeking muck, unmoving. No, not unmoving. _Shaking._

It seemed to Aragorn’s mind that a great time passed before the Elf lifted himself from his position. An even longer moment slithered by before Legolas turned to face them. The fires of Aragorn’s rage were immediately extinguished as if it had been laid bare in this cold downpour. Replacing it, though, was something warmer. It rushed over his frozen fingers and clammy skin. It spread to his legs and toes. The tense, hateful frustration fled his muscles, and his pounding heart relinquished its fury.

He laughed. He could not help it, really, for the scene before his was quite humorous. Legolas was completely covered in mud. His face was a mess of brown sludge, the goop dripping from his nose and chin. It caked his fair cheeks and lips, matting his mussed blond hair to his skin. His once immaculate tresses were now tangled and clumped with grime. A decaying leaf or two was plastered to his dirty locks. The mess continued down his body, covering the front of his tunic and breeches in a sloppy show of twigs and slime. As the rain poured upon him, the dirt traveled down his form in brown rivers. He appeared more a mud monster than a regal Elf prince.

A sharp glare from Legolas stifled Aragorn’s chuckles, and the man immediately felt guilt prick him a bit. “It is not funny,” declared the archer lowly and evenly, his voice seething and rancorous. Aragorn averted his eyes for a moment, trying his hardest to be ashamed. After all, he had pulled Legolas into the mud pit simply because he had been angry and frustrated, and the Elf had looked too… _clean_. Infuriatingly so. If Aragorn was filthy, then it was only right that his friends should be as well! These thoughts were childish beyond any measure, but he hardly cared. He was beyond decorum or propriety.

He clenched his jaw to stifle his laughter, deciding he was not brave enough to foolishly face the wrath of a dirty Elf. Legolas tried to wipe the mud from his eyes, but he was so covered that his fingers only succeeded in smearing more slime upon his once fair countenance. Angered beyond any measure, the flustered Elf took one step, slipped, and ended up on his back.

Aragorn roared with laughter. He slapped his thighs and doubled over, the entirety of his body shaking as great, rumbling chuckles consumed him. He gasped for breath, tears flooding from his eyes and spilling down his wet cheeks, as he succumbed to hysterics. It felt so good to laugh! Warm waves of elation rolled over his body. So consumed was he in his mirth over his friend’s state that he missed Legolas scoop some of the foul smelling stuff in his hand and crawl over. Only when the archer unceremoniously dropped the goop on the top of his head did he notice.

Aragorn grabbed Legolas’ wrist and shoved him back, the rain and mud dripping into his watery eyes. “You… you should have seen the look on your face!” Aragorn managed between gasping giggles. The Elf fell back, but his strong fingers had grasped his tunic and hauled him along for the ride. Both collapsed into the mud, laughing, wrestling in the most unbecoming display in which a prince of Elves and a king of men had ever engaged. Gimli watched the two for a moment, shaking his head with giant smile upon his lips, until one got hold of his leg and pulled him into the fray.

And so the three hunters, famed for their skill and endurance, praised as heroes of the War of the Ring and renowned as legends about which many ballads would later be sung, frolicked in the mud.

* * *

Later that night the queen emerged from her chambers at the frantic all of a servant. She rushed to the courtyard of the Citadel, her skirts swishing with her fevered walk. When she arrived, she was greeted with three beaming, utterly filthy faces. Despite her stature and poise, her jaw literally fell open, and she stared, shocked, at her husband and his friends.

Aragorn grinned widely as he saw her. “I am home, my sweet,” he declared jovially.

She raised an eyebrow in a manner that was decidedly reminiscent of her father. “I see,” she remarked. “Did you enjoy yourselves?”

The three shared a knowing glance. Legolas shrugged, his eyes twinkling in mirth, and Gimli smiled. “It rained the entire time,” said the king neutrally. Then they laughed and continued to walk, trailing mud and water as they went. The queen stood still for a moment, surprised and marveling. Then she shook her head slowly, but she was unable to keep an amused, relieved grin from gracing her pale face.

**THE END**


End file.
